My first glimpse of the Orkneys comes looming through the dense morning fog, tall and bold like an ancient obelisk from middle Egypt, my imagined inscriptions long lost to an unforgiving sea. The Old Man of Hoy, the famous lure for any self-respecting cliff climber, is only there for a moment, disappearing once again into a dragon’s breath of swirling sea fog.
I doubt if I have actually seen it, that perhaps it was just a mirage of the sea, but its existence is confirmed as I make out its shadow once again, my eyes following the lines of guillemots and puffins, startled by the wake from our ferry, furiously flapping back towards their young, safely perched on the steep cliffs of Hoy and the sea stack that is the Old Man himself.
The morning sun starts to break through as we sail into Stromness, the largest town on the south of the Main Isle and the shortest passenger ferry link to mainland Scotland. Which is a blessing, because we’ve been travelling for almost 24 hours already as we finally step onto Orkney soil. Our journey started the previous morning with a flight from Gatwick to Inverness, then a three-hour bus ride to Scrabster, before overnighting in a B&B and finally, this morning, an hour and a half ferry.
I’m travelling with my wife and two children, three and five, with a plan to explore the many islands that make up the Orkney archipelago by bike. We’ve pre-booked all our accommodation, as well as two rental bikes – one with a child seat, the other with a trailer – from Orkney Cycle Hire, so after dropping our bags at our hotel, we set out to find the bike shop.
We walk along the cobbled main street, only really wide enough for one-way traffic, between stout stone houses built to survive the worst of weathers – yet surprisingly pretty in the now bright sunshine. When eventually we do find the bike shop, it turns out to be a garage at the bottom of someone’s garden. Ducking under some white bed sheets drying on a washing line, we get our bikes from the owner’s son.
“I think these are the ones for you. Dad is out organising the show, and I’ve just come off my fishing boat.”
The bikes are like the houses and people of these northern Islands – tough and without nonsense. I’m handed the smallest of bike locks and when he sees my face he laughs.
“You mainlanders! Don’t worry, no-one will steal your bikes, there’s no crime on the island. We’ve not lost a bike in 20 years.”
Bike sharing?
So imagine our surprise, when we walk out of the B&B the next morning, only to find my bike and the trailer it was towing gone!
After a night spent eating fish and chips, watching a parade of tractor drawn floats and at least half the town enjoying a few beers too many, I’m now stood outside our hotel quizzing the manager.
“I’ve not moved them,” she said.
“So they’ve been stolen?”
“No, not stolen! Just borrowed. Go finish your breakfast and I’ll go and look for them.”
Ten minutes later she is back with both bike and trailer. “It was probably the trailer – it does look fun. I found them in a back street just around the corner; someone probably worse for the drink has just taken their mates for a little ride, that’s all.”
So, slightly later than planned, we set off for the tiny passenger ferry across the Hoy Sound. Navigating the steep sea-weedy steps, with heavy bikes and children, down to the boat is a little tricky, but the crew are more than helpful and we’re soon chugging along under laden skies. Hoy lies just south of the Orkney’s Main Island, and has the most impressive cliffs to be found in the whole island group.
As we ride through a wide yet steep-sided valley, past the peat bog Mosses of Whitestanes the children look out for hen harriers, but as the rain starts to fall we dive for shelter inside the Dwarfie Stane, a huge block of red sandstone hollowed-out some 5000 years ago. It’s a Neolithic chambered tomb, although we preferred the local legend that a dwarf named Trollid lived there.
As we find ourselves standing opposite the Old Man of Hoy, the only benefit I have from the pounding rain on my hood is the fact that I can’t hear my children complaining. It’s a stunningly beautiful hike along the cliffs from the YHA hostel to the Old Man of Hoy, but even I can take little pleasure in such a downpour. So we retrace our steps, jump on our bikes, and head for some warming soup at a little café we spotted earlier, to wait for the return ferry to Stromness. We’re so sodden that the owner has to mop under our table before taking our order.
Blue sky thinking…
The weather in northern Scotland is always unpredictable, especially in the Islands, but thankfully we wake to clear blue skies to start our tour proper, otherwise a mutiny might have been on the cards. First stop is the standing stones at the Ring of Brodgar, which are found on a thin strip of land between two lochs. We wander among the stones surrounded by fields of knee deep wild flowers over which swooping swallows and martins search for lunch on the wing.
Coincidentally, the BBC Time Team are filming at the site and when I offer my children for some realistic 21st century moaning, Tony Robinson jumps up and offers to sacrifice them – thinking of the hills that I’ve got to pedal the trailer over, it is tempting to lighten the load, but I decline his kind offer.
A few days later, while waiting for the ferry to Rousay, I take the children to watch a small fishing boat unload its catch of lobster and crabs, most of which is transported live to Spain. Meanwhile, my wife leafs through local history books in a private, always unlocked, dockside library (set up in the memory of a local book lover) on a comfortable sofa, over which a sign hangs encouraging you to take any book you like and leave a donation if you wish. After skimming stones the kids cheer at the first sighting of the ferry and we’re soon wheeling the bikes aboard for the short hop from Tingwall.
On our first evening on Rousay we ride a few miles to the excellent Taversoe hotel, and eat fresh fish washed down with pints of Northern Light from the fine Orkney Brewery, looking out to sea through the huge picture window. We are so impressed that we book a table for breakfast, before riding back to our hostel in the almost permanent night time dusk that lights the summer skies of the Orkneys. As we admire the deep purple and reds of the sky reflected in the calm waters of Eynhallow Sound, the narrow channel between Rousay and the Main Isle, the evening is completed by spotting a short-eared owl taking flight across the fields from its fence post perch.
The next morning, I’m woken by a soft tapping at our bedroom door; I ignore it until it becomes more insistent. Opening the door while still only in my pants, I’m greeted by the now slightly shocked female owner of the Taversoe, who on regaining her composure, says, “The rain is pretty bad, so I’ve brought you a breakfast box, as I didn’t think you’d want to cycle to us.”
“Wow thanks, let me get dressed.”
Slinging on some clothes I look out of the window on a brightening morning, which also happens to be my wife’s birthday. So somewhat ashamedly, I decline her breakfast box and say we’d prefer to ride to the hotel and once again admire the view, if she’ll still have us.
“No problem at all. Let me get home and heat the oven up, and we’ll see you then.”
The Isle of Rousay makes for a perfect day’s circular route and fuelled with a full Scottish, we explore the ancient burial sites of the island’s sheltered south coast, and wonder at the harsh existence the prehistoric people must have led. As we ride through farmland we’re accompanied by the almost always present chatter of skylarks and the alarm screeches of oyster catchers. On the island’s north coast, we climb steeply above Saviskaill Bay and spot a hen harrier gliding silently over the grassy field sloping down to the cliffs, before speeding downhill back to our start point.
The Northern Isles
We return to the Main Island and ride along the north coast to the capital Kirkwall, which while of interest, does lack the charm of Stromness – even if no-one borrowed our bikes while we stayed there! Kirkwall is a busy harbour town with lots of freight and a large, yet ever declining, fishing fleet. It’s also the main hub for ferries to the Northern Orkney Islands and the Shetlands beyond. Many cyclists base themselves here and take day trips to other islands, but as we like a more leisurely pace we overnight on most of the Northern Isles we visit, taking a day or two to explore each. Many of the islands, while close to each other, aren’t always directly linked by ferry, making a return to Kirkwall necessary.
Sanday best
Sanday, as the name implies, has the best beaches, and the fantastic beachside Ayres Rock Hostel and campsite, on the crescent shaped Bay of Brough, even boasts its very own resident otter family. Stocking up with fresh bread from the hostel shop, we ride through cattle-filled farmland to the island’s north, where we walk along miles of pristine beach. Our only company are the ever-present and inquisitive grey seals that flank us from the sea as we search for groatie buckies, the local name for cowry shells.
Our last island is Westray, and after only a short ride from the ferry point, at the island’s southern tip, the kids spot a hand-painted sign for puffins. Following an overgrown path on foot, above high cliffs, we come to the sea stack of Castle O’Burrian, home to hundreds of nesting puffins, whose comical strutting and furious flapping keep the children amused as we eat lunch.
The island’s main town is Pierowall, and its rugged isolation has drawn many artists to settle here. Leaving our delightful B&B we ride around Pierowall’s harbour wall, passing the town’s galleries and potter’s studio, which give the town a bohemian feel, on route to Noup Head. Here a continual white froth churns at the waterside, as the violent waves that have travelled hitherto uninterrupted across the Atlantic collide with the steep ragged cliffs. We sit in bright sunshine, cooled by the sea breeze, watching a spectacular show of gannets raining down on the water from on high, like arrows at Agincourt searching out their prey.
It feels like we’ve reached the edge of the world, the end of the last road on earth, and in a way we have. Remounting our bikes, as our holiday nears completion, we know that all roads from now on will lead us south, away from this point and back towards home.
